Future
by prouvaires
Summary: I did the right thing and didn't get an abortion, but now I'm finding it impossibly hard to give our son up for adoption. I thought I could just walk away, but nothing in life is ever that simple .:Kind of a challenge fic, I guess:. Smitchie.


Walk away, walk away.

Just turn around and walk away. It's not as hard as it seems.

Please walk away.

I know I can.

I _know _I can. I won't let my certainty be swayed by my aching heart.

It's just a baby, after all. I can walk away and never see it again.

But still I'm lying on my side in a hospital bed, my hand dangling in the cot of my baby. _My _baby that I didn't want. I did the good thing and didn't get an abortion, despite how much easier that course of action would have been.

He will never know I abandoned him. He will never know he had another mother. A young mother with an adoring boyfriend who's currently pacing furiously in the waiting room, under the mistaken in impression that I'm still trying to give birth. I wonder when the doctors will remember to tell him.

A thin, wailing cry pierces my confused silence. My baby's crying. What do I do? I never bothered with the parenting classes – I knew I wouldn't need them. So what is it that they do in movies? Well, I'll start by picking him up. Yeah, that could work.

So I swing my legs out of the bed, reach my tired arms into the clear plastic cot and take my son into my arms. He quietens immediately and gazes up at me. He already has a soft, downy covering of black hair, the same shade as his father's. He's so beautiful. His skin is silky smooth and soft, and although his eyes are a murky colour from birth right now, I'm sure they'll change to brown.

No! I won't be around to find out. I'm going to give him up to another couple who need a baby. Someone else will hear his first words, see him walk for the first time, be the receiver of his first smile. I won't think about how much I want that someone to be me.

Then he starts crying again. Now what? I try rocking him from side to side. That doesn't work. Then I have a brainwave and pull the bottle from the bedside table and put the tip in his mouth. He sucks greedily, hungrily. I sit down on the bed and let the tears fall down my cheeks as I watch him feed, aware this could be the last time.

I glance up in shock as the doors crash open; the doctors let Shane in finally. He stops dead when he sees me crying, and hastens over.

"Mitchie, baby, what's wrong?" He is all concern, and I lean into his chest to cry while I cradle our baby like he's the most precious thing in the world. Which he _is_, now. He's my everything. He and Shane seem to take up all the room in my heart and head. I've got no room left for common sense or morals.

"I can't give him up," I hear myself saying. Shane runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted.

"Mitch, how will you keep him? You can't afford to look after him."

"He's your son too. You can afford him."

He's angry now, but so am I. I half hunch over our child, automatically trying to protect him.

"Mitchie, you _know _why we can't keep him! We've been over this a zillion times. He'll grow up as the focus of the media, and neither of us will get any peace until the day we die! The paparazzi will eat away at _both _of you as well as me, and I can't let that happen to you. There'll be never-ending storms over all our heads."

I raise my head, my arms curled protectively around their precious burden. Shane has leapt to his feet, and is now pacing up and down. Outside, his bandmates stare in through the window, trying to work out what is going on. I know I look a mess: I can feel the grime all over me, and my messy hair falls over my flushed face.

I stare Shane down furiously, and I force the words out.

"Bring the rain," I say, and Shane collapses into a chair, his head in his hands. I continue, aware that I _have _to win this fight; my entire future depends on the outcome.

"Shane, he's _your _son! How can you make me give him up? Look, he has your eyes, and your hair."

I struggled to my feet, ignoring the pain, and force our son into his arms. He glances up at me wildly, and I answer his soundless plea for help.

"Look," I say, carefully shaping his arms to make our baby more comfortable. He stares down as our son blinks and opens his dark eyes to stare straight at Shane. He gurgles quietly, contentedly, and I'm aware in this moment, as I watch Shane's face, that he is undone. I have won this battle.

"Our son," he murmurs softly, reaching down to place a soft kiss on the baby's brow. I smile and kneel next to the chair he's sitting in.

"Nothing can make us give him up now," I say fervently. Shane glances up to meet my stare, and nods.

"I don't care if the paparazzi _do _descend. He's our whole future," he replies firmly, his mind utterly changed, turning back to stare with wonder at our child.

"I think I want to call him Seth. Or George." I tell him, and he thinks for a moment.

"I like George."

"George it is. George Shane Gray."

"You're giving him my name?" his voice is thick, and I see with amazement that he is blinking away tears.

"I'm giving him everything we have."

Shane gulps and shifts baby George into one arm, and wraps the other around my waist. I lean my head onto his shoulders and place a gentle hand on our son's head.

"Bring the rain," Shane murmurs. I smile.

"Bring the rain." I agree.


End file.
